


Undramatic Heroism

by KiranInBlue



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Growing Up, Slayer-Watcher Relationship, trio, watcher!andrew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3342119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiranInBlue/pseuds/KiranInBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three things that never changed about Andrew, and one thing that did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undramatic Heroism

_True heroism is remarkably sober, very undramatic. It is not the urge to surpass all others at whatever cost, but the urge to serve others at whatever cost._

_\- Arthur Ashe_

\-------------

**1.**

Andrew had never been good at staying up late.

Every day, he bounced around, fidgeting and babbling, and just generally expending more energy than most people used in a week. So by the time eleven o’clock rolled around in the evenings, he was out like a light. It didn’t matter where he was – cozy in his bed, or draped over one side of the couch, or squashed in between Jonathan and Warren in the front seat of their van – he could sleep anywhere. He slept long and deep, and no matter what Tucker or Jonathan said, he most definitely _did not_ snore.

But currently, it was 2:36 AM, and Andrew was still upright.

He felt miserable. His eyes were itchy and heavy; his fingers felt cold, and he just couldn’t stop yawning. Andrew gazed longingly at the long couch on the other side of the room. Warren’s slightly smelly throw pillows had never looked so inviting before.

But Andrew squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He could rest when the Trio had earned their glory as the frontrunners of power in Sunnydale, he reminded himself furiously. Warren and Jonathan obviously had no problem with evil plotting past midnight; Warren was tinkering with the unpowered invisibility ray, and Jonathan was sorting through a duffel of dark clothing and other museum raid necessities. Neither of _them_ were rubbing at puffy eyes or choking back jaw-splitting yawns. No way Andrew was going to fall asleep first.

Tantalizing visions of being known and respected and admired flashed through Andrew’s mind. He imagined people stopping to stare as he, Warren, and Jonathan passed by. There would be statues erected in their honor, proud and magnificent in the town center. Their names would be on everyone’s lips, spoken with reverence and awe . . . Andrew envisioned how _cool_ they would look, with long, dark coats and tall boots . . . and now large, scaly wings were sprouting from Warren’s back . . . he was turning into a dragon . . . that was cool, too . . .

“ _Andrew_!”

Andrew’s head jerked upwards from where it had been lolling against his shoulder. He blinked hard. Warren was staring at him, an amused smirk twitching at his lips.

“I’ve heard of horses sleeping standing up.” There was a note of laughter in his voice. “Gotta be a first for _dangerous supervillains_ , though.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Andrew muttered petulantly.

Warren rolled his eyes. “Sure. Whatever you say. Now why don’t you make yourself useful and hold this still while I attach the wires?”

As Andrew bent over the desk, still blinking sleep away from his heavy eyes, he wondered wistfully if Warren would let them take a short nap before the museum heist. Staying up all night for the chance at glory was all very cool and impressive, but Andrew certainly wouldn’t say no to just twenty-minutes’ rest . . .

\-----

At twenty-three, Andrew was no better at staying up late.

He could feel his eyelids creeping down, and he blinked hard. With one hand, he pinched at his forearm. His nails dug in, and he winced.

“You can go to bed, you know. You don’t have to stay up.”

Andrew glanced up at the young Slayer sitting next to him on the couch. Posey had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red, and she kept sniffling slightly.

“I’m fine,” he said stubbornly. “I can just make an espresso. Do you want anything?” he added, as he pushed himself up from the couch.

“Um . . . do we have any more mint tea?”

“Yeah, I put it on yesterday’s grocery list. I’ll make some.”

“Thanks.”

Andrew offered Posey a small smile, which she weakly returned.

Buried deep underground in a section of old, renovated Roman catacombs, the only difference between midday in Italy Squad Headquarters and the later hours was the quiet. The wan, orange light of the hanging bulbs still flickered overhead, but the twenty-odd Slayers who sparred and bickered and giggled during the day crashed almost immediately after evening patrol, exhausted by the demands of training. They fell asleep almost as quickly as Andrew, who often didn’t even make it to his own room and ended up draped over the couch in the main living space.

But tonight, Andrew had been roused around one in the morning by the sound of quiet, half-smothered sobs.

“Po . . . Posey?” he’d yawned, rubbing his eyes.

Italy Squad’s youngest member was crouched in a far corner of the room, her face tucked in against her knees as she curled in on herself. Her blonde hair was tied back in mussed twin pigtails, and she was still dressed in her butterfly-patterned pyjamas. At the sound of Andrew’s voice, she looked up, and hastily wiped at her eyes.

“M-Mr. Wells!” she stammered. “I’m sorry . . . did I wake you up?”

“No,” he lied. “What’s going on?”

Posey shook her head and gripped tighter at her knees. “It’s nothing. You can go back to sleep.”

But Andrew had slid his legs off the couch and sat upright. “Why don’t you come over here? My aunt always said it was bad for your back to sit on the ground.”

For a moment, it looked as if Posey was going to decline. But she shivered, and a line of goosebumps ran up her arm. Italy Squad had done their best to make their headquarters homey – the electricity and running water were a plus – but light cotton pyjamas still just wasn’t enough in the late hours. Without meeting Andrew’s eyes, she got up, and walked over to the couch.

Andrew pulled down a blanket that had been draped over the back of the couch. He held it out to her.

“Thanks,” she muttered, as she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and curled up at the far side of the couch.

“So . . . ,” Andrew said slowly. “What troubles you, my young padawan?”

Posey shot him a look.

“Sorry.”

She shrugged, and pulled her knees up closer to her chest.  “It’s stupid, anyway.”

“But it made you sad,” Andrew pointed out stubbornly.

“Yeah, well . . . “ She sighed.

There was a long pause, in which Andrew had to clench his jaw tightly to ward off another wide yawn. He refused to show sleepiness. 1 AM or not, his youngest Slayer was upset, and he had a duty to her.

“There’s just so many people,” Posey muttered finally.

Andrew frowned. “What do you mean?”

“ . . . I told you it was stupid.”

“I didn’t say that!” he protested. “I just . . . what _do_ you mean?”

Posey glanced at him warily, studying him for any sign of mockery. Resolutely, Andrew stared right back at her.

When Andrew didn’t laugh, Posey shrugged again and continued: “Italy Squad is big. And they’re all like me – same age, and all Slayers . . . it should be like a big sleepover all the time, right? But . . . there’s _too_ many. It feels like no one even knows my name.”

“I know your name,” Andrew said immediately.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re my _Watcher_. But even you _–_ how much can you really know about all twenty-six of us? No one has that kind of memory and energy.”

“Hey, my memory’s not bad!” he protested. “I know the entire _Klingon Dictionary_ by heart!”

But Posey shot him a scathing glare. “Sure,” she retorted. “But what about _me_? What was the name of my favorite stuffed bunny as a kid? Where did I like to go after school to relax? What restaurant did my family go to every Sunday?”  

Andrew blinked. “ . . . Uh.”

Posey sighed and dropped her gaze to her knees.

“It’s not your fault,” she muttered. “Those aren’t things you would know. Those are things I’d tell a best friend. But in Italy Squad, I don’t _have_ a best friend. I don’t even have a _good_ friend! There are twenty-six girls and you here, and I don’t know how to get close to _any_ of you!”

Her voice wavered. She looked to be, again, on the verge of tears.  

“Oh,” Andrew replied. “I . . . uh . . . “ He chewed his lower lip, fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt. “Well, um . . . are you sleepy?”

Posey’s face fell. “ . . . Right,” she mumbled. “I’m keeping you up. Sorry.”

“No, that’s not what I meant! I mean . . . well, if you’re not sleepy, we could stay up and have, like, Watcher-Slayer bonding time? You know?”

“ . . . ‘Watcher-Slayer bonding time’?”

Awkwardly, Andrew grinned, and he gave her a little half-shrug. “You can, like, tell me those things. If you want. Then you can feel close to someone in Italy Squad.”

“But . . . aren’t you tired?” Posey asked. “I don’t want to keep you up.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, shaking his head. “Come on, it’ll be cool – like a _real_ sleepover!”

And then, weakly, Posey had smiled. “ . . . Okay.”

Now, it was almost three in the morning, and just like every other _real_ sleepover Andrew had ever been to (which, admittedly, was limited almost exclusively to hiding out with the Trio), he was struggling to keep his eyes open. But he refused to sleep. Posey needed him, and he would stand by her. Even if that meant drugging himself to the ears with caffeine.

He returned from the kitchen and set the drinks – including one double-shot espresso – on the coffee table next to the couch.

“So,” he said, as he collapsed back into his seat. “How _does_ your mom make that cinnamon pecan pie? Any chance I could get the recipe?”  

Posey grinned. “I can see what I can do.”

\----

 **2**.

Andrew _hated_ being second best.

He bent over the old and ratty book, careful to not flake the pages in his hands. His eyes ached with the strain of reading the miniscule font, but Andrew just blinked once, and set his jaw. He _had_ to find where he was going wrong. The spell just wasn’t working - somewhere, there was a mistranslated rune, or a missing sigil. There had to be.

“Andrew, you’re still staring at that thing?”

Andrew didn’t bother to look up, so Warren sat down next to him and sprawled out lazily across the floor of their van.

“You know, it’s fine. So what, you’re not the next Tucker? We knew that already. I mean, I’m not going to pretend it’s not a little disappointing that we can’t use a Gargle-Whatever demon, but we always have our Plan B’s.”

“Glarghk Guhl Kashmas’nik,” Andrew muttered.

“Huh?”

“It’s called a Glarghk Guhl Kashmas’nik,” Andrew replied. “And I _can_ summon it. I just missed something.”

Warren rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say,” he said, an amused lilt in his voice.

Andrew bent closer to the book and pretended not to hear when Warren muttered next: “Too bad Tucker’s not still around.”

Two weeks later, Andrew stood proudly in the center of their basement, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Behind him stood an ugly, humanoid figure, with waxy skin and yellowish eyes that looked like marbles.

Warren let out a low whistle as he paced a slow circle around the two of them. “I’ll be damned. You actually did it.”

“Told you,” Andrew said smugly. “I can summon _anything_ Tucker can.”

Warren held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “Okay, okay! Sorry I doubted you, O Great Lord of the Hellions.”

Andrew lifted his chin and puffed out his chest.

But Warren had already turned away again, pulling his safety goggles down over his face. “I’m going to get back to work now,” he announced. “You bind our new friend and add him to our defense arsenal. Then get over here and help out.”

As Warren’s attention moved on, Andrew deflated slightly. But he said nothing.

He crouched down and dipped his fingers in a pot of red ochre to paint the runes that would bind the demon to the house. He worked almost painstaking slowly, using his opposite hand to steady his wrist as he drew. It was perhaps more care than was strictly necessary, but he kept focused.

After all, _Tucker’s_ runes would never be anything less than perfect.

\----

In Italian, “second” was “ _secondo_ ”. Andrew much preferred the word “ _primo_ ”.

Andrew scowled down at the pan of orange chocolate-chip muffins he’d just pulled out of the oven. He’d been pulled away from the kitchen by an unexpected call from Scotland, and now, the tops of the muffins had all turned dark brown, and when Andrew scraped at the muffins, he could tell they were dry.

“Oh, is breakfast done?”

Michelle, one of the senior members of Italy Squad, had just arrived in the entrance to the kitchen, and was eyeing the muffins hungrily.

But Andrew pursed his lips unhappily and dropped the pan on the stovetop. “They’re overdone. I’ll make another batch.”

“They look fine to me,” Michelle said. “I’m sure they’ll taste great.”

“No, they’re gonna be dry and icky! I can make better ones.”

“Hey, you baked us fresh muffins for breakfast. I don’t think anyone’s going to complain.”   

“ _Stiiill_ ,” Andrew replied stubbornly. “I don’t want to give you guys second-best muffins. You work hard, and you deserve better!”

Michelle crossed her arms and leaned up against the counter, lifting one eyebrow as she did so. “You could feed us entirely on stale bread, and we’d still love you for it. You give us _food_. We don’t particularly need it to be five-star.”

“No,” he retorted. “You’re getting better muffins. It’ll only take twenty minutes to do again.”

Michelle sighed and rolled her eyes, but it was a fond gesture. “Fine, fine,” she said. “But if you don’t mind, I’m going to take one of these ‘second-best’ ones in the meantime. I’m hungry.”

Andrew evidently _did_ mind. He wrinkled his nose and pouted, but, nevertheless, he used a gloved hand to prise free one of the overdone muffins and place it on a plate for her. “Let it cool,” he told her firmly.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

When the next batch of muffins came out - this time a perfect golden brown - Andrew set the platter in the center of the living room and took a step back. The Slayers converged on the plate, jostling and bickering.

Michelle was one of the first to escape with her muffin, and she wandered over to the back of the room, where Andrew was hanging back, watching.

“You didtake one for yourself, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Of course I did!” he replied. “I mean, I _did_ have to taste them.”

“Good,” Michelle said. “So, I suppose you found them to your liking this time, then?”

A small smile lit on his lips. “Yes,” he said proudly. “The balance of orange and chocolate was _perfecto_ , and I took them out at preciselythe right time.” He paused, and turned to glance at Michelle.  “ . . . But, uh, what do you think of them?”

“Hmm.” Michelle nibbled at a corner of her muffin and chewed thoughtfully, considering. “Eh. They’re okay, I guess.”

Andrew’s face fell.

But then, Michelle laughed and elbowed him playfully. “I’m messing with you, Mr. Wells! They’re _amazing_. I even liked the ‘dry’ one, and these are so much better than that!”

“Oh,” Andrew said, and the smile returned to his face. “I’m, uh, glad you like them.”

“Of course I do. You baked not one, but _two_ batches of fresh muffins for us, just because you wanted us to have a nice breakfast. There probably isn’t another squad on the planet pampered as much as we are.”

Andrew looked quite pleased with himself.

\-------

**3.**

In retrospect, Jonathan probably should have seen the signs that Andrew would ultimately put himself first.

Sometimes, Andrew was Jonathan’s best friend. They geeked out about Star Wars and watched Star Trek until Andrew fell asleep on the couch; Andrew let Jonathan borrow his Doctor Who novels, and they argued whether or not Cyclops could take Mystique in a one-on-one fight. And sure, there was that one time that Andrew had highlighted in Jonathan’s Babylon 5 novels, and sometimes they bickered and hit each other with lightsabers . . . but Jonathan had never had a friend before.

It was easy, therefore, to try to ignore what he knew to be true.

Jonathan hated working spells when Warren was around. Warren’s sardonic presence messed with his concentration - it made his fingers shake and his tongue stumble over the incantations. Like now; Jonathan was sitting crosslegged on the floor of their van, a rose-oil candle burning in front of him, and Warren was leaning back in one of the chairs by the monitors. Warren’s arms were crossed in front of his chest, and, as he watched Jonathan fumble through the spell, one eyebrow lifted.

“Mihi scientiae m-mundo sc . . . scrie,” Jonathan stammered, staring hard at the candle. “Uh . . . necesse est. Recludam videam . . . oh, wait, no.” He glanced over at the book open next to him, and swore.

Warren let out a heavy sigh. “ _Today_ , Sparky?” he drawled.

“I’m working! Just . . . just give me a minute, okay?”

Warren rolled his eyes.

Helplessly, Jonathan glanced over to Andrew, who was sitting in the chair beside Warren. But Andrew wasn’t looking at him.

Jonathan heaved a breath and stared down at his book. “Mihi scientiae mundo scrie necesse est,” he began again. “Recludam mentem videam p-potentiam quae, uh, alii non . . . -- hey, what are you doing?!”

Warren had stretched out lazily, and one leg reached out dangerously close to the flame of the candle.

Warren lifted his eyebrows. “Stretching,” he replied. “This is taking a while.”

“Yeah, well, not so close to the candle! That fire’s gonna flare!”

Warren snorted. “I’ll be old and grey by the time you get that candle to do anything.”

“But--!”

Warren ignored him. He stretched his arms above his head, letting his leg drift even closer to the candle.

“ _Warren_!”

It was Andrew who spoke this time, his voice panicked. Just as Warren moved his leg, the candle had, exactly as Jonathan predicted, flared high and hot. Andrew stared, wide-eyed, as a tongue of fire licked at the leg of Warren’s pants.

The denim caught.

Warren let out a yell and jumped up, stamping his leg wildly. Jonathan snatched up a discarded sweatshirt from the floor and leapt forward to try to smother the flames. Warren’s jumping around made it difficult to get the sweatshirt around his leg, but, somehow, Jonathan managed to wrap the fabric around and pat down hard, hastily stammering out an incantation to summon water.

“Ch-chalchiuhtlicue - atl! A-atl!”

As he spoke, his hands left large damp spots on the sweatshirt, which soaked deep through the fabric. There was a hiss, and the flames guttered out. Thick tendrils of smoke rose from between the folds of the sweatshirt.

Warren swore loudly and tore off his pants. He dropped the jeans to the ground, where they lay, smoking silently.

Jonathan let out a deep breath and sat back. The rush of relief made his head feel light.

But, then, Warren rounded on him.

“The _fuck_ , Jonathan?!”

“H-huh?”

“You _set me on fire_! The fuck - can’t you do _anything_ right?!”

Warren was shouting, his cheeks flushed with adrenaline and fury. He stood there in his white-and-blue striped boxers, but his fists were clenched, and the set of his jaw made Jonathan shrink back.

“I-I . . . I warned you!” Jonathan squeaked. “I t-told you!”

But Warren wasn’t listening. “Damn you, Jonathan! You could have seriously hurt me! What is _wrong_ with you?!”

“I . . . I--!”

Helplessly, Jonathan looked over at Andrew.

Andrew stared back him. There was a torn expression on his face; Andrew’s eyes were wide and frightened, and worry creased at his forehead. Even as Jonathan watched, Andrew’s gaze flickered over to Warren, and he nervously licked at his lips.

“Andrew,” Jonathan said pleadingly.

Andrew turned back to him. There was sympathy in his expression.

For a moment, the tightness in Jonathan’s chest relaxed; Andrew was going to stand up for him. Alone, Jonathan couldn’t do much to defend against Warren, but together . . .

But then, Andrew’s gaze hardened.

“Seriously, Jonathan, you can’t even control your own spells!” he snapped, and his voice was as acerbic as Warren’s had ever been.

Jonathan stared at him, feeling something inside him clam up. He dropped his gaze, clenched his fists, and waited for the tirade to pass.

\-----

The Slayers of Italy Squad had noticed a troublesome pattern where their Watcher was involved: in the line of fire, Andrew put himself first.

Traditionally, Watchers hung back. They offered guidance to their Slayers before and after a battle; the more hands-on ones would shout advice from the sidelines as their charges exchanged blows with vampires and demons. But they never dirtied their own hands.

It made sense, really. Watchers weren’t the ones gifted with super-strength, speed, or an accelerated healing factor. They were the walking encyclopedias of the struggle against evil, and if something happened to a Watcher, that meant their Slayer was left unguided until a new Watcher could be brought in. And these days, there was a significant lack of extra Watchers.

Perhaps it was the influence of Mr. Giles, who’d turned his back on the Council’s principle of “detached professionalism” and revolutionized the Watcher trade. Perhaps under his training, Andrew had learned to throw caution to the wind and to go with his heart. But even Mr. Giles had never been as reckless as Andrew was whenever he brought Italy Squad on patrol.

The first time, Italy Squad had a membership of only four. There was Andrew, of course, and Michelle, and Nina, and Maria. The three Slayers had flown in only the night before, but after a good twenty hours of rest and skills evaluation, Andrew had decided to bring the girls on their very first vamp raid.

“Now, according to my reliable, confidential sources,” Andrew had said, lifting his chin importantly. “There is a mausoleum here that is home to a nest of vam-pyres. Six, to be exact.”

They were standing at the edge of a cemetery a few minutes outside the city. The Slayers were huddled nervously together, and when Andrew spoke, they exchanged looks.

“You want us . . . to take on six vampires at once?” Maria said slowly.

“At once? Not at all! We will lure the vam-pyres out of their mausoleum one at a time, and you will take turns! That’s two vam-pyres each.”

The girls still looked dubious. They had just travelled halfway across the globe to train in a host of supernatural powers they’d only developed a few months ago, and they’d found themselves under the guidance of a _boy_ with too-long curls, who spoke in science fiction references and wore ill-fitting tweed suits. He couldn’t even say the world ‘vampire’ correctly. Collectively, they agreed: even if this plan sounded marginally acceptable, something was _bound_ to go wrong.

But all three of them were new to this supernatural world, and none of them quite knew how to voice their concerns. So, when Andrew strode off across the long grass, the Slayers simply followed.

Andrew led them to an ornate, marble mausoleum at the center of the cemetery. With an exaggerated motion, he brought his fingers to his lips, then waved the girls over. He arranged the three in a triangle-like formation, with Michelle at the head, and Nina and Maria crouched down behind a pair of headstones behind her. Andrew spent another few moments adjusting their posture, making thoughtful ‘hmm’s as he pushed an elbow down or straightened a set of shoulders.

Then, when he was satisfied, he gave a curt nod, and turned to the mausoleum.

And apparently, the Official Andrew Wells-Approved method of luring a vampire out of its nest was to walk right up to the door and shout: “ _Vampiri! Venite fuori!_ ”

At first, the plan went surprisingly well. Summoned by Andrew’s shout, the first vampire emerged, and Andrew ducked around the side of the mausoleum and gestured Michelle forward.

Just as they practiced: unbalance the vamp, trip ‘em, and _stake_. Michelle executed the maneuver flawlessly, and the first vampire exploded in a cloud of dark dust.

“Great work!” Andrew called from around the corner. “Nina, _prossimo_!”

And again - unbalance the vamp, trip ‘em, and _stake_.

The next two vampires were dealt with in the same fashion. The girls felt adrenaline thrumming through their veins, the Slayer power within them answering the thrill of the kill. With each successive staking, Andrew’s voice got louder and more high pitched with excitement:

“ _Magnifico_!” he cried. “Maria, you’re up!”

But on the fifth vampire, the pattern faltered.

It was Nina’s turn. As the next vampire emerged, she made to shove him off balance - but her footwork slipped, and her ankle twisted. When she went to knock the vampire’s feet from under him, she was unsteady. The vampire shoved back at her - Nina went sprawling. Her fist fell open, and the stake rolled away from her through the unkempt grass. She lay there, breathless and weaponless, as the vampire advanced on her. She seemed to be frozen.

Maria and Michelle were crouched behind their headstones, not three feet away. At the sound of Nina’s cry, they had both hefted their stakes; the Slayer power was humming, and they were itching to jump into the fray of battle--

But Andrew didn’t call either of them forward.

He leapt out from behind the mausoleum and shoved himself - his own scrawny, unmuscled body - directly between Nina and the looming vampire. His hand flashed out; the vampire shrieked and clutched at his face as holy water hissed on his skin.  

Andrew dropped to his knees and tugged on Nina’s wrist. “Come on!” he urged. “Come on! Get up!”

Nina scrambled to obey, but she stumbled. Her knee went down, hard, and her ankle twisted under her.

The vampire had recovered from the shock of the holy water. He let out a low snarl as he advanced on Andrew and Nina, who were still crouched on the ground - and what was worse: the last vampire had slipped from the mausoleum to stand beside his nestmate.

Andrew threw himself in front of Nina, using his own back as a shield.

He grabbed her under the arms and attempted to haul her to her feet. “Come on, come _on_!” he hissed.

But panic had made Nina clumsy. She staggered.

The vampires were closing in, their narrowed eyes bright yellow. Andrew had let go of one of Nina’s arms to fumble in his jacket, but he wasn’t moving fast enough.

A cold hand snatched Andrew’s shoulder. He let out a yelp and tensed himself for the pain of fangs against skin - he threw out his other hand, and the other vampire grabbed it, and now Andrew was helpless, but at least Nina was scrambling away--

The first vampire’s fangs had only just barely brushed against Andrew’s neck when there was a rush of movement. A scuffle - and then, the pressure on Andrew’s shoulder and arm vanished.

Michelle and Maria stood behind Andrew, where, only a moment before, the two vampires had been preparing to tear open his neck. They both still had their stakes raised, as two clouds of dust settled into small piles at their feet.

Andrew swallowed, and pressed one hand up to the side of his neck. An old scar still shone silver there. “So . . . uh,” he said. “Everyone a-okay? Nina?”

Nina had finally pulled herself to her feet. She was leaning heavily against a headstone, her face slightly pale. But when Andrew turned to her, she nodded.

“Well, then! Six vam-pyres dusted, and no Slayer casualties! That’s what I call a successful first hunt!”

Michelle and Maria exchanged glances.

“But you . . . ,” Maria said weakly. “But you - you almost . . .”

Andrew waved a hand dismissively. “Bound to be a few hiccups the first couple rounds. But anyway, _I’m_ not the one with the destiny. You guys are my responsibility, and as long as you’re safe, that’s my priority. Now, what do you say to a nice _gelato_ to celebrate your first staking?”

And that was how Italy Squad learned: while Andrew might be small, odd, and a little hare-brained, he would always put his life first on the line to protect his Slayers. In time, the pretentious pronunciation of “vam-pyre” fell from his vocabulary, and he traded in the tweed suits for oversized sweatshirts. But to the very last patrol, it was _Andrew_ who went first.

\------

**+1**

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Andrew was supposed to be a _god_ \- him, and Jonathan, and Warren. Warren would rise from the dead, and Jonathan would heal from his wounds, and Andrewwould be their hero, the one who gave them life and brought them home to a glorious new world of power and gratification. They were going to surpass everyone who’d ever doubted them; they’d be stronger than the bullies, faster than Buffy, smarter than Tucker . . . they were going to be _better_.

It wasn’t supposed to be like _this_.

Andrew’s back was stiff from the straight-backed chair he was tied to. His wrists were rubbed raw from the rope, and there was a dull throbbing in the wound at his neck. He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat like this, alone and in the dark. It didn’t really matter, he supposed.

Warren was dead. _Jonathan_ was dead.

“Not enough blood,” that - that _spectre_ had said. “Kill the pig; bring him back.”

A lie.

The blind monks - Bringers, Buffy called them - had stolen Spike. They were going to bleed him, to drain him. _They_ cared nothing for Jonathan.

Jonathan must be still lying, cold and lifeless, in the basement of the school. Andrew hadn’t buried him. After all, Jonathan was supposed to come back, just as soon as Andrew finished the ritual. Jonathan wasn’t supposed to be _dead_.

Fleetingly, the thought crossed Andrew’s mind that he was the last surviving member of the Trio. Perhaps, that meant he’d always been the smartest, the most powerful of the three; _he_ was the only one to go up against both Buffy and The First, and come out alive. He was his own leader now.

The thought made him feel empty.

Andrew Wells: the last man standing. Not a god, not a hero. Not a friend. He wasn’t anything, and he had nothing.

\----

The familiar living area of Italy Squad HQ looked oddly misty. Andrew sniffled and rubbed hard at his eyes.

Twenty-one Slayers were filed out in front of Andrew, making the living area somewhat claustrophobic. And yet - it felt as if his vision were filled by absences in the crowd: Posey’s blonde braids, Maria’s beaming smile . . .

Five faces he’d said good-bye to already. Twenty-one more he was leaving behind now.

Andrew dropped his gaze to the ground, where an overstuffed, monogrammed suitcase lay at his feet. At the moment, it was hard to remind himself that this was his choice _._

“D-don’t skimp on your training,” he said thickly. “But also remember to take time off. Saving the world doesn’t mean no downtime, and you don’t want to burn yourselves out.”

“Andrew--”

“Depend on each other, and not just in battle, either. You remember those trust exercises I taught you? Use them, at least once a week. And - and remember three meals every day, even when you’re busy. And--”

“ _Andrew_.”

A hand settled on his shoulder, and finally, Andrew looked up. Michelle was staring down at him, a small, fond smile on her lips.

“This isn’t the last time you’ll ever hear from us. We’ll call you, all the time. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to drop encyclopedias of advice on us then.”

Andrew’s lower lip trembled. “ . . . Promise?”

“I _promise_ ,” Michelle said gently. “Listen, I understand why you’re going with Buffy. Even if we can’t follow her ourselves anymore - well, if you didn’t go to San Francisco, you wouldn’t be following the same love and loyalty that made you a hero to us all in the first place.”

“You’re not our Watcher anymore,” Nina put in. “But you’ll always be our friend.”

Andrew let out a strange keening sound, and then, he launched himself forward, wrapping his arms tightly around both Nina and Michelle. “I l-love you guys, so much!” he sobbed.

As his shoulders shook, Nina laughed and hugged him back; Michelle carded her fingers through his hair. “We love you, too, Andrew. You’ll always have us.”

And maybe, Andrew thought, stepping down from command wouldn’t be so bad after all.


End file.
